


and set me free

by growlery writes (growlery)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - The Proposal Fusion, M/M, WIP Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 07:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19313833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery%20writes
Summary: Miller's visa's up, and he's desperate to keep his dream job, so pretending to be engaged to his assistant, Monty, doesn't sound like the worst idea in the world.





	and set me free

The whole thing is Clarke's idea. 

“Green card wedding,” she tells him, very seriously. She was the first person Miller went to after Monty forwarded him the email from his immigration attorney, and Miller knows Bellamy wouldn't have been much more help, but he's still regretting his life choices. It's sort of a day for that. “I saw it in a film, once; it'll totally work.”

“Uh huh,” Miller says, unconvinced, and Clarke arches her eyebrows. 

“Have you got any better ideas?”

Miller does not. Miller did not, before today, even realise his visa had expired; if he had, he'd have been way more prepared to actually do something about it. 

“I could just come back in a year, after it's all sorted out.”

“We'd have you back in a heartbeat,” Clarke says, her mouth twisting, “but the only person with enough experience to do your job is Murphy and, well.” 

She makes a face, and Miller nods. 

“Green card wedding,” he says, finally, “okay.”

“Green card wedding,” Monty repeats, when he gets back to his own office, “is she serious?”

Miller rubs a hand over his face. “I don't have a lot of other options,” he says. “It's that or leave.”

“Yeah, no, you can't leave,” Monty says, and Miller's chest gets all fluttery. “Murphy would be the worst boss _ever_.”

That makes sense. Monty is Miller's assistant, after all; of course he didn't mean anything else by it. The fluttering's been happening more and more, lately, regardless of how often Miller reminds himself of this fact. It's getting kind of inconvenient. 

“Looks like we're both in the lurch,” Miller says, trying to smile, and Monty gets this strange look on his face. 

“Nathan Miller,” he says, very serious, “will you fake marry me?”

*

“Are you sure about this?” Miller asks, as they're crossing the street to the immigration office. 

“Nope,” Monty says, taking his hand, “but it's our best shot, right?”

Miller wants to argue, wants to say that they're rushing into this far too quickly, that they need to spend more time considering the consequences, that Monty maybe shouldn't be giving up this huge part of his life just to make sure Miller doesn't get deported. But Monty's hand is warm and soft, and he's sort of absentmindedly stroking over Miller's knuckles, and Miller just nods. 

The queue is horrendous, and when they finally get seen, the INS agent looks deeply unimpressed. Miller guesses they get this kind of thing a lot. 

“Be honest,” the agent, who introduced herself as Anya, says, “are you two about to commit fraud?”

“No,” Miller says immediately, because Monty could go to jail for this, for him, and he can't let that happen. “We're just-” 

He stops, frustrated. Bellamy laughed for ten minutes straight when Miller told him about the plan, and then spent twice as long coaching him on genuinely romantic things to say, but everything just sounds stupid inside Miller's head. He reads other people's words for a living; that doesn't mean he's any good with them. 

“We were keeping it quiet,” Monty says, “because, well, you know.” He gestures between them with the hand not holding Miller's, a sad little smile on his face. “It might seem like convenient timing, but this has been a long time coming.”

Miller nods. “It's been hard,” he says. He squeezes Monty's hand, because it feels like the thing to do, and Monty smiles at him, like a real fiancé would. Miller gets the distinct feeling that the fluttering is going to get even more inconvenient. “You can't always be sure people will understand.”

“That's very touching,” Anya says, dry. “You'll have no problem passing the required tests to prove the status of your relationship, then.”

“No test can be greater than what we've already faced,” Monty says, earnest; almost too earnest. “We look forward to it.”

“I'm sure,” Anya says. “Have you told anyone at all about your relationship?”

Miller starts to shake his head, but Monty nods. “My best friend from back home knows, and I have a family reunion this weekend. We were going to tell everyone then.”

“We were,” Miller says, and it manages to mostly not come out as a question. Anya does not look convinced. 

“I wish you the best with that,” she says. “Your interviews are on Monday at 11am. Don't be late.”

*

“Right,” Monty says, spreading the papers out on Miller's desk. “This'll be easy. I could answer these questions in my sleep, so we've just got to make sure you can, too.”

Miller nods. “Have you called your mom yet?” he asks. He hasn't called his dad yet, but he will. His dad's going to be so happy for him, Miller knows, and part of him is already aching over it. 

“Not yet,” Monty says, with clearly forced cheer. “Trying to find a tactful way to tell her I'm bringing my secret fiancé down to meet the family, and, oh, yeah, I'm bi.”

Miller looks away, licks his lips. “I'm really sorry about this.”

“Hey,” Monty says, soft, “I asked you, right?” Miller looks back at him, and Monty is smiling, the same sort of sad smile he gave Anya earlier that day. “We're in this together.”

“Yeah,” Miller echoes, “together.” He looks down at the papers, glancing over the questions. “So what's your least favourite food?”

“Olives,” Monty says, making a face. 

“What's my least favourite food?”

“Apples,” Monty says. “You eat them because you feel like you should, they're that kind of fruit, but the texture makes you gag.”

“Okay,” Miller says, “that's kind of creepy.”

“I'm your assistant, Miller,” Monty says, “it'd be weirder if I didn't know these things about you.”

Miller licks his lips. "You should call me Nate,” he says. “My fiancé would call me Nate."

"Nate," Monty repeats, like he's trying it out, and Miller has to look away, back down at the list of questions. 

*

His dad _is_ happy for him, is the worst thing. 

"Nate," he says, when Miller calls him during a break. Miller gets a lump in his throat at just the sound of his voice over the phone, remembers being fourteen and shaking with terror, spitting out the words so his voice wouldn't break, remembers his father's face dropping for just a moment and in the next instant his father's arms coming up around him to pull him into a hug.

"I know it's a bit sudden," he starts, swallowing, swallowing, "but with my visa expiring, it seemed like as good a time as any to get things moving. I'm sorry I never told you about us before."

His dad chuckles. "I can't say I'm surprised," he says. "You talk about Monty a lot. I had my suspicions there was something going on, but I knew you'd tell me in your own time."

Miller still can't goddamn swallow. “Yeah,” he manages, somehow, and when he hangs up he puts his head in his hands and exhales a ragged breath. He opens the top drawer of his desk, stares at the small box sitting out of place amongst the painstakingly organised office supplies, then dials Monty's extension. 

There's a knock at his door a moment later, even though Monty's supposed to be on break, too.

“I know, I know,” Monty says, holding his hands up as he comes through the door, but he stops short when he realises Miller hasn't called him in to lecture him for working too hard. “Uh. Nate?”

“I called my dad,” Miller says. “He told me to bring you, the next time I come visit.”

Monty nods, suddenly serious. “My mom's excited to meet you,” he offers. “She cried, at first, and I thought- but she was just so happy I was finally telling her. Apparently she's suspected for a while.”

“Good,” Miller says. His voice comes out fiercer than he means it to be, and he coughs, clearing his throat. His eyes find the top drawer of his desk, but he looks away quickly. “That wasn't why I called you in, though. I just wanted to check the travel arrangements for this weekend.”

Monty visibly relaxes, so Miller does, too.


End file.
